


Collection of Tumblr Fic - August

by Nny



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon Typical Violence, Kid Fic, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Possibly tbc?</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Derek and Stiles' kid's first day at school

"Remus John Hale," Stiles intoned - and would that there were another word for it, Derek thought, and thank all higher powers that they were still in the car - "you are named after two of the bravest men I’ve ever known."

"Oh come on,” Reem said, tugging futilely at the door. Derek turned in his seat to hand over the Spiderman bag and the leather jacket that Stiles found _hilarious_. “Der - “

"Just give him his moment," Derek said, projecting practiced calm, projecting adulthood, projecting all the things no one had told him he’d have to work on.

"Did you check the post?"

Derek grinned and reached back to ruffle his kid’s thick dark hair.

"Sorry, kid," he said, feeling impossibly old saying it, "no Hogwarts letter, you’ll have to stick it out with the Muggles for now."

"Although," Stiles said, twisting around in his seat and fixing Remus with a look that didn’t quite manage stern, that kept slipping halfway to excitement before he reined it in, "at the weekends…"

“ _Hogwarts_?” Remus breathed, and Derek couldn’t work out where to look, which helplessly beaming grin he wanted to take in more.

"I will teach you," Stiles said, adopting the adult expression he’d stolen from his dad, " _if_ your homework is done on time, and _if_ you’re keeping the detentions down.”

Remus practically writhed in glee, and the smile it put on Derek’s face was wide and ridiculous and a little bit painful. He was undoubtedly a Hale, stockier and darker than his sister, but there was so much of Stiles in him anyway that there was no questioning he was _theirs_.

"Yes yes _yes_ ,” Remus crowed, “love you dad, love you Der.”

"How’s _he_ earned it?” Stiles said, mock-disgruntled, pouting like someone a third of his age.

"I spent all last week arranging paperwork for the nurse, so he didn’t have to be home-schooled again," Derek said. "Speaking of, if you are ever worried that your control is going to slip - "

"Straight to the nurse, allergic reaction, call my dads, I’ve _got_ it,” Remus said, practically vibrating.

"Man," Stiles said, "school seems like yesterday, and I swear I was never this excited for it."

"Good luck, kid," Derek said, and released the interior locks. Remus catapulted out of the door and across the grass, only turning back to wave as an after thought.

"Our baby’s all grown up," Stiles said, clutching his hands to his chest, and Reem glared at them from the school steps, but there was something layered underneath the pantomime that made Derek reach over and gently squeeze his thigh.

"Hey," he said gently, "hey."

"No," Stiles said, "no, I’m good, I’m fine, I’m fantastic in fact. Do you want to take a guess, a shot in the dark at why precisely I am so great?"

Derek eyed him, eyed his slow growing smile and shifted in his seat, because the look in Stiles’ eyes always caused a Pavlovian reaction in his pants.

"End of summer?" he said, fumbling the keys into the ignition.

"End of summer," Stiles breathed. "Empty _house_.”

Stiles was bouncing a little in his seat like a kid, like a teenager, like he’d been at the altar, because love was a kind of time travel - not a moment lasting forever, but a forever of moments like this one, a forever of the same smiles and bounces and helpless tugging in his chest.

A forever of public indecency and speeding tickets too, of course, but that was what he’d signed up for. For better or worse.


	2. Restaurant Sterek

Sometimes his babka calls it a restaurant, which kind of makes him want to laugh a little because he’s reasonably sure in a restaurant the napkins aren’t made of paper. It’s not much, the kind of place where neon puts sharp edges on the shadows come closing, but it’s his, and there’s no way he’s losing it because some asshole is violating health codes by bleeding out on the diner floor.

“This is your fault,” he says, pressing the guy’s square hand against the wad of apron against his side, and the blood seeping through the dark fabric is probably why his grip is so horribly weak. “Hold it. _Hold it_.” As soon as the guy makes a pretense at a grip Stiles flings himself towards the counter, shoving shaking hands under the faucet and cursing touch screen phones. There’s a duck-tape muffled grunt from the corner so Stiles curses that way, too, grabbing his phone from the counter and crashing back down to his knees at the bleeding guy’s side while his thumb is still pressing the final one.

“’spital,” bleeding guy slurs, and he’s found reserves of strength from somewhere ‘cos Stiles can barely pull his fingers away to put his own 100% healthy brand of pressure against the hole in his side.

“What?” he says, vague and distracted, as _please_ state your emergency is a dissonance of calm in his ear.

“No _hospital_ ,” bleeding guy says, bleeding asshole who snatches Stiles’ cell from distraction-loosened fingers and throws it, hard, pieces of it skittering away from the wall. The noise he makes he must’ve pulled something with the violent movement and Stiles hopes it hurt.

“Wow,” Stiles says, “wow. If you die you _deserve_ it.” There’s a muffled grunt of agreement from the corner and Stiles whirls around and points. “Shut the hell up or I’m shooting you too.” His sneakers squeak against the tiled floor as he shoves to his feet again, grabs the over-sized first aid kit his dad had given him the day he opened. It is deluxe, it is absurd, it has basically outfitted the place to cope with a zombie apocalypse, and he chokes a little on his laughter because the first thing he fumbles out is a band-aid and there is blood _all over the floor_.

“This is your fault,” he says again, because it’s true. Because ‘spotting guys with guns’ was part of his dad’s mandatory training, right after the whole strangers with candy conversation and right before he learned how to disarm. Only Stiles hadn’t been paying attention to the fear-dilated pupils, the sweating, the hand in the pocket, because he’d been too busy with the bone structure on the guy in the corner who kept calling Stiles over for refills and holding eye contact a little too long. So the sudden movement, the yelling, the circle of cold metal against his forehead had taken his one-liner reflex completely off guard and he’d just said, a little pathetically, “seriously, how much do you think I _make_?”

However much it was in the register it wasn’t worth his life, and there was no way he’d been going to argue, only the pretty-eyed idiot in the corner wanted to be a hero and wound up getting shot for his trouble. At least it’d distracted the shooter long enough for Stiles to slam a frying pan into his head.

So now Stiles has a formerly-armed felon duck-taped to the jukebox and a medical emergency making stupidly attractive faces as he - as he -

“Are you seriously trying to sit up? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”

A curled lip is the only response, but the light from the buzzing strip light reflects off teeth that are sharper than they should be and Stiles swears, long and creatively and in three different languages, the fear and annoyance running through him tempered with a healthy dose of relief.

“You couldn’t have just _said_ werewolf? You scared the _shit_ out of me,” he says, and there’s an incredulous noise from the mummy-wrapped dick in the corner that matches pitch perfectly with the quick warning blat of the siren outside, because you’d better believe in the Stilinski household a text to the Sheriff gets sent before any 911 call you could ever need to make.

He ends up cutting the shooter free from the jukebox and hauling him outside, turning off the lights as he goes and locking the door behind himself, because there’s no way to explain the pool of blood without his dad finding out about people like Scott, and Stiles has invested time and money and a healthy portion of his good relationship with his father to prevent him from finding out about people like Scott.

“You’re okay?” his dad asks, his tone threadbare with concern, and Stiles nods and grins and wraps his arms around his old man.

“He wasn’t even armed,” he says, tucking the lie alongside the expression on his face in the collar of his dad’s shirt.

*

The next morning dawns bright and beautiful and bloodstained.

“We’re closed,” Stiles tells the opening door without turning, wringing out the pink-stained mop into water he’s going to have to change at least three more times before he’s done.

“We’re on clean-up,” an unfamiliar voice tells him. “Derek sent us.”

The voice is unfamiliar but the girl he maybe knows. Moving in senior year brings a flood of new faces, and the makeover was kind of extreme, but the boyfriend swings it - Boyd and Erica, which makes the other guy the Lahey kid who his dad says most likely didn’t murder his father, but would’ve been justified if he had. Stiles didn’t see that kind of white-lipped fury on his dad often.

“Don’t know a Derek,” Stiles says.

“He says he saved your life,” Lahey says, a little pissily.

“Eyebrows,” Boyd adds, and yeah, they were kind of distinctive.

“Ah,” Stiles says, and attacks the tacky bloodstain with renewed energy. “The dick with the hero complex.”

“Yes!” Erica says, delighted, and, “okay, that’s mine, I claimed it, I get to tell him Stiles called him that.” Her glee seems a little misplaced, since it’s unlikely that Derek will care, but then she’s shouldering him aside and pulling the mop from his hands so there’s clearly something a little off about her anyway.

Stiles shrugs and jumps up to sit on the counter, watching with folded arms as they make themselves busy. Isaac pauses long enough to put a phone on the counter next to him.

“From Derek,” he says, and oh, it is _nice_. A hell of a lot nicer than the crappy beat up smart phone lite that Stiles had been hauling around, and it’s almost enough to forgive him right there.

There’s only one number in the contact list.

 _U r an asshole_ , Stiles sends, because what the hell, so is he.

 _Pretty sure you owe this asshole dinner_ , bleeps back, in less than a minute, and Stiles hears Erica snort when she sees his slow grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly tbc?


End file.
